Black and Gray
by StolenSapphires
Summary: "Berlin has always been nice this time of year." An epilogue.


Berlin has always been nice this time of year. Snow sinks into the alcoves and the dips between cobblestones, bathing this city of blacks and grays in bright white. Little flakes of the white catch on the collar of Gretel's shirt and the corners of the crate in her arms, following her inside the house and up the staircase, through the doorway. Forgotten books and photographs and other trinkets line the walls.

Gretel sets the hefty crate down onto the bed just as the door slams open and Maria flies in with two more crates and a small tea set. She smiles, a wobbly little upturn of the lips that conveys more sadness than anything, but Gretel gives no more than an acknowledging glance before turning her back to the room.

"How many more are there?" Gretel says, inspecting the room.

Maria fumbles momentarily, carefully setting the tiny cream pot and teapot on top of the crate on the bed. "Only a few, Miss. Shall I bring them up for you?"

Gretel nods, only feeling a twinge of guilt when Maria comes bustling back in with three more boxes. She sets them down ever so gently on the floor by the foot of the bedstead, tucking a thick black curl behind her ear. Maria gives another weak smile, which is what gives Gretel the strength to squash down any regret she may have felt and order the servant girl to go down and fetch two more crates. This room—_her room, _she amends quickly—is about the same as it was, save the addition of about a centimeter of dust on the shelves and two of grimy frost on the windowpanes. Gretel sweeps a dainty shoe across the floor and leaves behind a streak of clean and _goodness, we couldn't have been away that long. _Automobiles sputter past along the streets, and after only a modest amount of tinkering the record player on the bedside table sputters into life with the faint strains of the violin that she dimly recognizes as Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3 in G—her (no, _their) _tutor in Auschwitz had insisted that she _(they) _learned everything there was to know about such things, as it was _terribly important, dear girl, and would make your brother very proud of you, God rest his soul._ The tutor was sacked less than a week after that.

Nothing has really changed at all, here. Except of course it has, because the room down the hall is empty where it shouldn't be, and half of the boxes in her room belong in there and always will. She has half a mind to take a few random crates over into that room, if only to take away some of the gaping emptiness that fills the vacant space.

"It really is nice here," Maria says from the doorway and _how long has she been standing there? _"You always liked Berlin. Even when you were little, I remember how you ranted and raved about how lovely everything was here, and how pretty the snow looked on the shop roofs."

"Doesn't look very pretty now," Gretel sneers, and no, no it doesn't, and the black boxy automobiles on the road smear the icy cobblestones with their poisonous smoke; red flags cast toxic shadows on the pavement. Had the city always looked like this? She can't remember. Maria does not speak to her again, preferring to work in silence. Gretel's room fills up with boxes upon boxes upon boxes, and the record player spews Mozart all through the house.

* * *

The house is big and eerily quiet—something else she can't remember it being—and there isn't a lot to do; all of Gretel's dolls are gone (a decision she regrets now, just a little) and the crates on her bed remain closed, only being touched to be moved so that she could try to sleep for a few hours. A kind gesture on the part of the maids, and something she probably would have appreciated, once. Every box is moved except one of the smaller ones, which remains at the foot of the mattress, despite the various attempts from the help to move it elsewhere with the other boxes. It always makes its way back to the foot of the bed, and one day they simply stop trying to stop it from doing so. Gretel makes sure of this.

On a Tuesday, a woman with a nondescript maid uniform and general air of hopelessness comes into Gretel's room; she pays the woman no mind, obviously, seeing as this one is just the same as the rest right down to the faint scent of cleaning agent and dust mites that all the maids share. The only thing that makes this particular maid different is the fact that the first thing she does upon entering her youngest charge's room is accidentally knock over several open crates in a spectacular display.

"What are you—out." Gretel leans down, gathering the scattered contents of the crates with a gentle hand. "Out! Get out!" she shrieks when the woman hesitates, but at that she scrambles out of the doorway and Gretel feels no better than before. The box previously resting on the end of the mattress is sideways on the floor, a collection of dog-eared adventure books spilling out across the floor. The emptiness down the hall seems to swell.

* * *

On a Sunday, Gretel's father returns. Most of that day is spent in her room with the forgotten things on the shelves, trying to ignore the shouts and the sobs and the screams from underneath. It reminds her too much of ash and smoke and sulfur that stains the rain that falls heavy on her mother's new dress, and her brother's old clothes that are clutched between _their _mum's desperate hands. It reminds her of mud and fences and farmers in striped pajamas, and then all at once she can't stop thinking _**HER BROTHER IS DEAD.**_

She doesn't even realize her feet have taken her all the way downstairs until she joins the screaming, sobbing _"Shut up shut up shut up"_ until her throat is numb. The screaming has stopped for a brief moment but she can still smell the sulfur, so Gretel runs out that door into the streets and the automobiles and the snow, and still her mind won't stop chanting _shutupshutupshutupshutupshut up._ She barely even notices her mum and dad and even Maria come up beside her, all finding it easier to comfort someone else than to be comforted all whispering sweet lies like _You're okay I'm here it's okay it'll all be okay._ They sit there together, a broken family, for hours. Slowly the stench of smoke and sulfur bleeds away, and it's the best feeling and the worst one. It feels like forgetting, and for a brief moment she lets it.

The cars smudge bright white with the blacks and grays of Berlin, and snow falls on the shop roofs like so much ash.


End file.
